


Physical

by Boeshane42



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual!Sherlock, M/M, Medical Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-06
Updated: 2011-10-06
Packaged: 2017-10-24 08:36:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/261313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boeshane42/pseuds/Boeshane42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"All this time, all his efforts, and he’d had it all backwards; Sherlock <i>is</i> capable of sexual arousal (even <i>with</i> company), but it’s the clinical touch that stimulates him rather than the sexual one."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Physical

**Author's Note:**

> Russian translation by [PulpFiction](http://archiveofourown.org/users/PulpFiction/pseuds/PulpFiction) here: <http://archiveofourown.org/works/7914661>

 

 

John Watson would guiltily admit that he used to harbor doubts regarding the existence of asexual men.

As a man (and a somewhat complex one, at that), he understands that sexual drives vary between individuals and that one’s libido may change across time. As a doctor, he’s all too aware of the various incarnations of, and causes for, erectile dysfunction.

However, try as he might, he’d never been able to picture a human male entirely lacking interest or need for sexual relations.

That is, until he’d met one Sherlock Holmes.

*

The gravity of the situation is initially obscured by a haze of alcohol. 

John returns to the flat more than a little drunk one Friday night, binging after a long and horrendous week. He hadn’t intended it but somehow one drink had turned into two and then five and he’d lost count after that, simply happy to forget about too many obnoxious patients and the stifling smell of old age.

By the end of the evening he’s so plastered that he barely makes it up the stairs to the flat, and once there he promptly trips over a cement brick resting on the floor just inside the sitting room. He’s caught by a pair of strong arms which keep him from falling flat on his face, and is pulled back upright against a warm body.

“Experiment in progress, tread carefully,” Sherlock suggests.

Said experiment apparently involves bricks, watermelons and an assortment of metal rods, arranged in an indistinct pattern across the room. John looks at the mess, tries to turn around and only then realizes that he still has both arms wrapped around his flatmate.

Sherlock doesn’t seem to mind – he’s looking down at John with fond amusement, his hands resting lightly on John’s upper arms. “The last two vodkas were probably unnecessary,” Sherlock notes mildly.

The color variations in Sherlock’s irises and the minute changes in the diameter of his pupils momentarily distract John, who’s not accustomed to this up-close view. Absentmindedly he mutters, “Only had one.” 

Sherlock frowns and leans down.

For a brief instance John thinks he’s about to be kissed, but Sherlock stops a breath away and John realizes he’s being _sniffed_.

“Absinthe?” Sherlock inquires.

“Ouzo...” John replies softly.

Their faces are only inches apart and it feels to John like the oxygen levels in the room have suddenly dropped too low. He’s breathless and dizzy and oddly warm, the source of the latter easily traced to several points of contact between his body and Sherlock’s.

“Is this odd?” John hears himself asking, as if from a distance. They’ve never embraced before. In fact, John can’t remember the last time he’s embraced _anyone_.

Sherlock’s eyes narrow and he looks at John as if he can’t understand the question, which makes John wonder whether the words had come out incorrectly. Was he slurring? He opens his mouth, wants to repeat it or explain, but it suddenly seems like too much of an effort. Impulsively, he leans forward and touches Sherlock’s lips with his own.

They’re pliant and warm, and the contact is so light that the nerve-endings in his lips feel like they’re buzzing with electricity. A puff of air tickles his nose and he pulls back, suddenly apprehensive. He finds Sherlock watching him with that same expression of fond amusement and can’t help but feel a flutter of panic. It’s not the ‘I’ve-just-kissed-a-man’ sort of panic (he predicts that will come later, once he’s alone and can reflect privately upon certain past occurrences which, apparently, _weren’t_ just a phase…). It’s closer to the ‘I’ve-just-made-an-utter-fool-of-myself’ sort.

He’s just _kissed Sherlock_.

Sherlock, who isn’t in the habit of kissing people, who’s married to his work and thinks that John is an idiot. How embarrassed is he going to be about this when he sobers up?

“I’m… drunk,” John offers hesitantly.

“So you are,” Sherlock confirms with a hint of a smile and moves back. John expects the contact to vanish, but Sherlock’s hands don’t let up and he realizes Sherlock is pulling him along. He tries to follow without tripping over the various obstacles and they make it to the sofa, where Sherlock settles him down and then kneels before him, his hands on John’s knees.

Sitting helps the dizziness, at least, and John can breathe again – can think somewhat coherently. When he looks at Sherlock he discovers that the intense scrutiny hasn’t diminished in the slightest. “I shouldn’t have kissed you,” he blurts.

“I rather enjoyed it,” Sherlock informs him.

John stares.

He should probably say something.

His mouth opens, but words seem to escape him so he closes it again. After a moment he tries again, manages an “Um…” before Sherlock leans forward and kisses him properly.

It’s overwhelming initially, Sherlock’s smell and taste and soft lips, Sherlock’s tongue caressing his, Sherlock tasting him as if he’s trying to identify each drink John had earlier this evening. Perhaps he’s doing exactly that.

Sherlock pulls away only long enough to join him on the sofa, and John finds himself drawn to Sherlock’s body heat like moth to a flame. He tries to get as much contact as he can and they end up sprawled together on the sofa with John on top of Sherlock.

For a while John loses himself to sensation. He’s not sure why they’ve never done this before; it’s bloody _brilliant –_ he can’t think of anything else that he’d rather be doing. Nothing could possibly top the feeling of Sherlock’s parted lips against his, the slow, sensual slide of fingers through his hair, the texture of Sherlock’s silky curls between his fingers…

Well, almost nothing.

“Are we going to have sex?” John asks breathily.

The question makes Sherlock laugh quietly. “Unlikely, considering we’re both flaccid.”

John actually has to look down to realize Sherlock’s assertion is accurate. Fortunately, the cause of his less-than-adequate physical response is also very effective in alleviating his embarrassment. It allows him to appreciate the hilarity of the situation, but only until something important occurs to him. “I’ve had too much to drink,” he points out. “What’s your excuse?”

“Oh… That thing has a mind of its own. Don’t take it personally,” Sherlock says dismissively.

John looks back up, frowning. “It... doesn’t like me?” he asks and suddenly realizes that they’re referring to Sherlock’s penis as a separate entity, which is absurd.

“It doesn’t like anyone,” Sherlock informs him with a sigh and resumes kissing him.

*

The next morning, after the hangover diminishes enough for John to be up and about, he makes sure he understands correctly.

“ _Anyone_?”

Sherlock, who’s busy mixing buffer solutions in the kitchen at the time, looks up at him in confusion, which clears up a couple of seconds later.

“My own hand, occasionally. Never any sort of company,” he states simply, attention already back on his work.

*

John doesn’t handle the new information nearly as elegantly as he’d like to. While he doesn’t suggest that Sherlock try Viagra or see a therapist – he might be an idiot by Sherlock’s standards but he can still recognize that this isn’t a condition that requires fixing – he’s not exactly _happy_ about it either. 

It’s not that Sherlock minds his touch – quite the contrary. On several occasions they end up intertwined on the sofa much like that first night (minus the inebriation aspect) and Sherlock seems rather content. However, while John becomes increasingly worked up, his body desperate for something beyond languid kisses, Sherlock remains physically unaffected.

When Sherlock offers to bring him off, John very politely and very decisively refuses.

He doesn’t doubt that Sherlock’s eagerness to do that for him is genuine, but that’s the thing about sex – it’s all very silly and messy and awkward. The flushing and gasping and sweating and moaning and twitching and loss of control… The only thing that prevents it from being utterly mortifying is the knowledge that his partner is in the same boat.

But John can’t have that with Sherlock.

He knows what captures Sherlock’s interest by now. He knows what makes Sherlock angry. He knows how to make Sherlock laugh, but nothing in John’s arsenal is even remotely effective in turning Sherlock on.

Or so he thinks.

*

Sherlock is aroused.

It catches John off-guard not only because it’s the first time he’s witnessing the condition in Sherlock (who is, John has come to accept, as asexual as they come), but mostly because they’re not currently engaged in any activity that could be described as arousing.

To be more specific, they’re sitting in the kitchen. There’s gauze and antiseptic laid out on the table between iffy-looking Petri dishes and Sherlock has a six-inch gash on his forearm (there had been an investigation, a chase and a wire fence). The cut is not quite deep enough to require stitches, so John is in the process of taping it shut with butterfly bandages.

Nothing about this scenario strikes John as even remotely stimulating, however the signs of arousal are unmistakable; Sherlock’s breathing is slightly labored, his face flushed and there’s a distinct tenting in his trousers.

John continues working without pause – disinfecting and bandaging, Sherlock’s gaze closely following every movement of his hands. “Is it the pain?” he asks Sherlock, genuinely curious.

Sherlock’s eyes snap up and he seems a bit startled. “Hmm?”

“You’re aroused,” John notes flatly. “We’ve… already established that it’s not me…” he actually succeeds in keeping any trace of bitterness out of his tone. “I know some people are wired that way; pain signals in the brain translated into—“

“—No,” Sherlock cuts him off. “Not that.”

John picks up a roll of tape and begins securing the edge of the bandage in place. “The blood?” he tries again. That would be somewhat creepier, but, Sherlock being Sherlock, not altogether shocking.

Sherlock shakes his head dismissively. He doesn’t elaborate, but he also doesn’t indicate he’d prefer it if John dropped the matter altogether.

“This, then?” John gestures between them vaguely as he finishes up and cuts the end of the tape. “The… medical procedure?” It’s the only other option he can think of.

Sherlock blinks and looks away – a first indication of embarrassment. After another moment he nods.

John tries not to stare like an idiot. On the one hand he’s relieved; this one isn’t quite as disturbing as the other two possibilities. On the other hand this discovery is so unexpected and, frankly, _bizarre_ , that he’s having trouble wrapping his head around it. All this time, all his efforts, and he’d had it all backwards; Sherlock _is_ capable of sexual arousal (even _with_ company), but it’s the clinical touch that stimulates him rather than the sexual one. In retrospect, knowing Sherlock, that probably should have occurred to him. 

“It’s fine,” John blurts, because he has a feeling that making this into any sort of issue would effectively terminate any potential avenues unearthed by this new information. “You never said anything… but I… suppose it makes sense.” He tries to keep his tone casual, begins packing the supplies back into the first-aid kit. “If I’d known sooner I would’ve…” he trails off uncertainly as Sherlock narrows his eyes.

“Would have what?” Sherlock asks sharply.

What indeed?

Proposed he and Sherlock go to bed and play doctor?

Sherlock would have laughed himself silly at the mere suggestion.

Sherlock looks at him for a long time, eyes calculating. “It’s your profession… I assumed you’d be bothered by it,” he answers carefully. 

It’s a fair point and John considers the matter. “I might be,” he divulges. He’s never done anything of the sort, never even thought about it, and there are probably matters of medical ethics to be taken into consideration, but still... a possibility, when John had begun to think there were none. “I wouldn’t dismiss it outright.”

Sherlock gets up, shrugs his shirt back on. He seems contemplative as he buttons it back up. “I’ll… think about it,” he finally says.

 *

“It won’t work if we’re pretending,” Sherlock announces a couple of weeks later.

John looks up from the morning paper and rolls his eyes as he sees the bag in Sherlock’s hands.

Of course Sherlock had found it – the concept of privacy was practically nonexistent to the man and it had been silly of John to think that anything kept in his dresser would be respected as off-limits. Not that John had been actively trying to hide it; he’d simply put a few items in a bag at the end of the workday last Thursday, brought them home and put them away. Just in case.

Sherlock frowns into the bag and a moment later fishes out the white coat.

“Pretending?” John asks. “I _am_ a doctor, you realize.”

Sherlock looks at him with narrowed eyes. “So you are,” he replies thoughtfully. He rubs the stiff cotton of the coat between his fingers and tilts his head a bit in consideration. “I’m currently neither sick not injured,” he notes, sounding as if this is a pesky problem that needs to be dealt with. “My arm has healed nicely. Perhaps a shallow flesh-wound inflicted with a clean—“

“— _Sherlock_!” John exclaims a bit desperately, because he really doesn’t want to hear the rest of that sentence. He stands up, takes the coat and the bag from Sherlock’s hands. 

Sherlock frowns. “No…?”

John shakes his head and tries not to look as horrified as he feels. “No… _No_.” He swallows, takes a deep breath. “You don’t need to be sick or injured for this,” he assures Sherlock. “I see plenty of healthy patients, annual checkups and all that…” As he says it John feels some of his confidence coming back. While he doesn’t have a concrete plan and this is, in many ways, uncharted territory, the medical aspects, at least, are ones he’s both familiar with and proficient at. It’s time for Sherlock to follow his lead, for once.  “I could… give you a physical,” John offers, hoping he’s getting this right.   

“A physical,” Sherlock repeats evenly, thoughtfully. “I’ve never had one of those before... What precisely would that entail?”

John blinks, mentally goes over the well-memorized checklist. “For a healthy man in his thirties there are a few routines…” He spots his collection of medical texts under the coffee table, goes over and quickly finds what he’s looking for. He hands the volume to Sherlock, opened to the relevant table. “These are the common exams. We can do some of those or all of them; I don’t know what you…”

He trails off because Sherlock, after skimming the page, is staring at him in a very distracting manner. The look is reminiscent of the one a person might direct at a particularly delicious treat, but on Sherlock, who’s usually not one to take much pleasure in food, it’s entirely novel.

“Uh…” John’s mouth is suddenly dry and he has to clear his throat. “Is this… appealing to you at all…?”

“It is,” Sherlock replies in a hoarse, slightly breathless voice. “All of it.”

*

They do it in the kitchen.

It’s the only room in the flat that has sufficient light and for once Sherlock is more than willing to clear and disinfect the kitchen table. John watches him work and attempts to overcome the overwhelming sense of weirdness that has befallen him.

What is he getting into? Is this supposed to be a medical exam or a sex game? Perhaps something in between? But how is he expected to act professionally when the goal is getting off? And most disconcertingly, is this what he’ll be thinking of on his next shift at the surgery, while he’s treating real patients? 

A part of him is terrified this will end badly for all parties. Another part feels awkward and inappropriate. A third part simply points at the other two and laughs.

Fortunately, when Sherlock finishes up and sits on the edge of the table, looking at John with a mixture of eagerness, excitement and nervousness, John’s mind slowly settles into a more coherent state.

This is about Sherlock, he reminds himself. More precisely, this is about John giving Sherlock something that, until recently, he’d thought was beyond his reach.

He can do this.

“Second thoughts?” Sherlock asks with a raised eyebrow.

John shakes his head. “No…” he hesitates, bites his bottom lip. “You’ll tell me if this isn’t working, yeah?”

Sherlock smiles with one corner of his mouth. “John…”

The tone lets John know that he’s being an idiot again, and the familiarity of the feeling is oddly reassuring. He huffs and begins rolling up the sleeves of the white coat. “Right then, shirt off,” he instructs as he heads over to the sink to wash his hands.

He then goes to his bag of supplies that's propped open on the counter. He takes out the stethoscope and hangs it around his neck, then slips a pen light into his pocket.

When he turns around Sherlock is naked from the waist up and watching him with interest. John approaches him, stopping with his thighs just brushing Sherlock’s knees. He takes hold of Sherlock’s wrist, just below the nicotine patch (only one today, thankfully), and gently presses the pads of his fingers against the pulse point. He glances at his watch, notes the rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest.

“You really never had a physical before?” he inquires. He realizes as he asks the question that it shouldn’t surprise him – not when he considers Sherlock’s general disregard for anything related to his physical needs.

Sherlock smirks. “This is the first time I’ve been sufficiently... motivated.”

If the faint flush on Sherlock’s cheeks and upper chest, his elevated pulse and respiration rate are any indication, ‘motivated’ might be an understatement.

John lets go of the wrist, holds a finger in front of Sherlock’s face. “Follow my finger,” he directs and then watches as Sherlock’s eyes obediently follow as he moves his finger first to the right, and then left. “Good, now straight ahead.” He picks up the pen light, clicks it on and shines in into Sherlock’s eyes, watches the pupils contracting dutifully. “Say ‘Ahh’.”

Sherlock complies, extends his tongue as John shines a light into his throat. He returns the penlight into his pocket, brings both hands to Sherlock’s face. He feels for the lymph nodes under Sherlock’s jaw, presses on his sinuses with the pads of his thumbs. “Any pain?”

“No,” Sherlock answers somewhat breathily. The skin of his neck feels soft and overheated under John’s fingers, and it’s with considerable reluctance that John finally pulls away.

“Touch your chin to your sternum,” he asks and nods when Sherlock complies.

He puts the stethoscope on, rubs the chestpiece against his coat sleeve a few times to heat it. Sherlock still shivers slightly when John touches it to his chest. His heart, hammering loudly through the earpiece, tells as much to John about Sherlock’s state of mind as the gradually growing bulge in his pants.

So far John is too caught up in the professional angle of what he’s doing for him to be truly aroused. He’s yet to decide whether that’s a blessing or a curse.

“Deep breaths through your mouth,” John instructs quietly as he moves the stethoscope to the side and then down. He steps around the table, rests the stethoscope on Sherlock’s back, moves across the ribcage as he listens to the flow of air into Sherlock’s bronchi and lungs.

“Stethoscopes are just sensitive enough to pick up sounds of air flowing through a compressed chest cavity of a drowning victim,” Sherlock informs him, his voice vibrating through the earpiece. “I’ve used it to determine whether the victim was conscious while drowning, since voluntary muscle contractions change the distribution of air throughout the lung tissue.”

John removes the stethoscope and rolls his eyes. “Please remind me to never lend you my stethoscope,” he retorts, making a conscious effort to eradicate the image of a bloated drowning victim from his mind (in which, unlike Sherlock’s mind, thoughts of sex and corpses do not mix). “Lie back.”

Sherlock settles back onto the table. It’s only long enough to support him from head to knees so his bent legs end up dangling over the end. The position presses his erection against the front of his trousers and John’s eyes are momentarily drawn there before he catches himself, directs his attention to the next exam.

When John’s fingers touch the warm skin of his chest, Sherlock inhales a shuddering breath and closes his eyes. John pauses, palm resting lightly against Sherlock’s sternum. “You alright?” he asks quietly, because he thinks that the rapid, shallow breaths are a good sign, but he has to be sure.

“Fine,” Sherlock answers on an exhale. Too quickly, almost impatient. John mouth opens, about to inquire further, worried that he’s doing something wrong... but Sherlock looks at him then, eyes bright and dazed with lust, and the words get stuck in John’s throat. He’s never been looked at with such a mix of sexual urgency and desperation and, coming from Sherlock of all people, the combination is quite overwhelming.

It sends a warm, liquid pulse of lust down to his cock and it’s suddenly hard to think, impossible to concentrate. He’s no longer certain in his ability to see this through. Swallowing heavily, John looks away, slides his thankfully-steady hands down. He takes his time palpating Sherlock’s abdominal quadrants, gently feeling out for his liver and spleen as he attempts to bring himself back under control. The warm, smooth skin of Sherlock’s belly under his hands is not helping matters.

“This isn’t… ah…” Sherlock starts, trails off. He seems as shocked by his own lack of eloquence, the unsteadiness in his voice, as John is. “It feels different, with someone else present…” he finally concludes. 

“Different… good?” John asks hopefully.

Sherlock chest shakes as he laughs softly. “Quite.”

John nods, smiles wryly as he steps back. “In that case, now would be a good time to take off the rest of your clothes.”

He turns back to his supplies as Sherlock stands up, rummages inside the bag until he encounters latex. He turns around while still pulling the second glove into place, doesn’t miss the stutter in Sherlock’s breathing at the snap of latex.

Sherlock kicks his pants and trousers away and turns to face John in all his naked glory. John doesn’t even bother trying not to stare. His experiences at the surgery – memories of naked patients standing before him wilted, awkward and embarrassed, fade into the recesses of his mind as his eyes rake over Sherlock’s body – flushed with arousal, hard cock jutting up. Sherlock’s heated gaze locks with his and John barely makes it to the swivel chair without stumbling. He sits down, takes a deep breath before rolling closer to Sherlock. 

Sherlock remains completely still, his muscles tense as if he’s making an effort not to move. At the first touch of John’s latex-covered fingers to his cock, Sherlock jerks, gasps.

John pauses, looks up at him. “Is this—“

“—fine. Don’t stop,” Sherlock snaps. He seems on the verge of losing his composure and John is heady with the knowledge that he’s the one causing it.

By this point John thinks he’s working mostly on muscle memory; it’s the only way to explain how he’s still keeping up with the exam when all he can think about is what the clear drop of fluid at the tip of Sherlock’s cock would taste like, and how easy it would be to simply lean forward and take him into his mouth.

The strangled sound coming from Sherlock’s throat as John gently retracts his foreskin isn’t helping matters either. With some effort John moves his gaze (and hands) away from Sherlock’s penis and reaches down, moves his fingers over the testicles, palpates the perineum.

“Turn you head and cough,” he instructs, wondering why he’s even bothering – at his current state John doesn’t think he’d notice even if there _was_ something wrong.

Sherlock appears to be as distracted as John is, requiring several seconds to understand what John is asking.

After Sherlock manages a somewhat feeble cough John lets his hands drop and looks up. “Good. Uh... Turn around, lean on the table,” he suggests. He shakes his head, tries to regain some self-control as he rolls with the chair toward the bag to retrieve the lubricant. He feels absurdly unprepared for what he’s about to do.

He’d performed more rectal exams than he can remember, but the priority has always been about making his patients comfortable and getting it over with as quickly as possible. It’s never been about making it pleasurable, or getting someone off. He regrets now not indulging in some self-exploration in that area sooner.

When he rolls back Sherlock’s backside is turned to him – its lean angles and curves no less appealing to John than his front. Sherlock is slightly bent over the table, arms straight and fingers splayed on the tabletop. The tension throughout his body is evident, his muscles twitching as John lays a hand on the small of his back. “Lower,” John directs.

Sherlock moves gingerly, settles with his elbows on the table. He lets his head hang down, dark curls brushing his forearms. John feels him taking a deep breath and then the muscles under his hand relax somewhat. Sherlock dips at the waist, pushing his backside up and out. “Perfect,” John says, removing his hand and opening the lube.

He uses one hand to part Sherlock’s buttocks, rubs Sherlock’s anus lightly with his slick forefinger. “Bear down against my finger,” he tells Sherlock as he nudges against the opening. He can feel the response when the ring of muscle relaxes and pushes in steadily, sliding his gloved finger all the way inside.

Sherlock inhales sharply and then stops breathing altogether.

From what John can see in profile Sherlock has the side of his face pressed against his upper arm, his eyes squeezed shut. “Alright?” John asks, keeping still.

Sherlock makes a small, choked sound, and then his breath leaves him in a rush. “Fuck…” he gasps out. “I… think I’m going to come.”

“Oh…” John replies somewhat stupidly. He’d been almost afraid to hope for that particular announcement. “Um… don’t let me stop you.”

Sherlock grunts and unfurls one arm, reaching down and curling his fingers around his erection. “More,” he growls.

“More?”

“More,” Sherlock repeats.

John withdraws his finger and promptly pushes in with two, curls them inside Sherlock with careful aim.

“Ungh…” Sherlock lets out. He tightens the fist around his cock and jerks himself a couple of times, his fingers pulling the foreskin back and then sliding it back over the head, compressing the blood to the tip. On the third stroke Sherlock’s entire body tenses and then he’s coming, silent but for a harsh exhalation as his body shudders through climax.

John can feel all of it through his fingers as Sherlock’s muscles contract around them rhythmically, clenching and unclenching with each spasm of Sherlock’s body. Two copious spurts of come land on the table, the rest slowly dribbling over Sherlock’s fingers as the last tremors go through him. John’s cock twitches in sympathy within the confinement of his pants, and he can’t help feeling regretful for the latex glove – he would have loved to feel the hot, slick grip of Sherlock’s rectum against the skin of his fingers.

He pulls out gently as Sherlock grows slack, peels off the gloves and stands up.

Sherlock pushes upright gingerly, wipes a sticky hand on his discarded shirt.

“Good?” John asks quietly.

Sherlock turns to him, stares at him with hooded eyes. When he steps closer his body language radiates lazy satisfaction. He kisses John with intent, his arms wrapping around John’s waist. John parts his lips with a small sigh, for once not shying away when Sherlock presses a thigh between his legs, rubbing against his erection.

“Good,” Sherlock murmurs as they part, resting his forehead against John’s.

For a pilot experiment, John thinks, they couldn’t have asked for a better result. He can’t help but feel a certain amount of smugness at being the first person to bring Sherlock Holmes off. “You’re in perfect health, by the way,” he says wryly.

Sherlock huffs. “That’s tremendously reassuring, Doctor.” Sherlock’s right hand begins unbuckling John’s belt and this time John has no intention of stopping him. “Leave the coat on?” Sherlock asks as he slides to his knees.

John does.

 


End file.
